


Weeping Willow

by Asharion



Category: Broken Worlds Roleplay: Aegis, Original Work
Genre: Broken Worlds Roleplay, Charming villian, Elf, Elves, F/M, Fantasy, Minecraft server, OCs - Freeform, Oneshot, Original work - Freeform, Political Intrigue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2019-06-30 08:44:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15748263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asharion/pseuds/Asharion
Summary: A one-shot about a pair of characters of mine, which were created for a world setting in Broken Worlds Roleplay. Magister Armadi, a charming and well-liked public figure of the city-state of Aram, has a private meeting with Zafir Songleaf, a young elf uncertain of her place in the world.They've come to be some of my favorite characters for story writing purposes, I will likely publish a few one-shots about their tales, and someday, a full fledged novel on Zafir Songleaf's adventures through the Sea of Wolves and the mainland realm of Aegis.





	Weeping Willow

The scent of a fresh spring rain clung thick to damp stone and lush greenery of the courtyard garden. Flowerheads hung heavy from fat dew drops, their colors turned into alternate hues of glowing vibrance or subdued grays as cloud shadows passed overhead.

  
It was early enough for birdsong, but the recently passed storm had sent the worldly creatures back to their nests, leaving the gardens in a state of uncanny silence.

  
In the shelter of a wispy birch sat Zafir Songleaf, perched neatly on the edge of a slender concrete bench, alabaster skirts pooled around her and hands placed neatly in her lap.

  
The shy sun occasionally caught a glimmer of glass beads embroidered into her dress’s trim, or glinted brightly off the assortment of silver earrings adorning elven ears.

  
She cut a striking figure, the low neckline of her gown drawn in a loose sweep across her chest to bare her collarbone and shoulders, slender neck decorated in a lace collar set with emeralds and peridot.  
Pale gray ruffles offered an elegant and subtle detailing, cool tones setting a smart contrast against her tanned skin, her livingwood mask the most startling feature. Dark green bark with painted yellow and red markings teased viewers with the face hidden behind it; at its edges could be glimpsed the youthful curve of a proud jawline and smooth cheeks.

  
“Good morning, miss. I was told to deliver this to you.”

  
Zafir tilted an ear and silently turned her head to face the elderly human who approached, wearing the plain but well-made clothes of a servant. Faded blond curls were piled to conceal the smattering streaks of gray, and her wrinkled face was without makeup.

  
Knobbly hands extended a small, black lacquered tray, on which was placed a single creme envelope.

  
Satin gloved fingers gingerly lifted it up, and with a curt nod, she sent the woman off, unsettled.

  
_‘He only sends Madrie to me when he is upset. How many more years before I will see her, too, fade from life?’_ she pondered idly, looking down at the envelope.

  
A drop of water from the birch leaves above fell, and plopped onto the thick paper. With a sigh the elf stood, ignoring the spattering of droplets that had collected in her time sitting, which slid down her bared skin, wetting her dress.

  
Stepping onto the cobblestone path and into a beam of sun, she flipped the envelope over.

  
As always, it was adorned simply with two words in strikingly rich green ink, and sealed shut by his personal crest stamped in cyan wax.

>   
>  _Little Willow_

  
Her hands froze, poised to tear the letter open, gaze lingering on the name. He had called her that since they were children, though he’d never told her why. She long suspected it was making fun of the times he’d caught her weeping over one matter or another.

  
Pale blue eyes scanned the letter’s contents. Written in his own hand, the message was brief, if somewhat poetic in wording and the elegant flow of curling script.

  
He wanted to meet with her about her grades, he was concerned for her after seeing the drop in scores.

  
Trembling fingers folded the perfumed paper up and stuffed it back into the envelope, then tucked it away down the front of her dress, a silent rebellion against more ladylike manners she was expected to adhere to.

  
It did not take her long to get from the private garden to his study, passing swiftly through halls lined in marble columns and plush carpet. The mansion staff paid her no mind, silently stepping out of her way or pausing to let her pass.

  
At the heavy, dark-oak doors she hesitated, hand poised to knock.

  
Indecision was ended for her; no sooner had she made up her mind to follow through with the gesture, than the door opened. Suddenly nose-to-forehead with a squat, plump human in vibrant purple robes in the style of the Magistrate’s attire, she blinked and looked down.

  
Beady brown eyes squinted up at her, before the man huffed.

  
“You are in my way,” he declared archly, just as she opened her mouth to apologize.

  
“You are in mine,” she said instead, temper bringing a spark into her eyes.

  
“Why, I-”

  
“Songleaf, come in. Magister, please pardon her manners. She’s not a Lady by birth.” His tone was formal, but held a charming warmth to it that was uncomfortably pleasant. To her, at least.

  
_‘The hell I’m not,’_ Zafir thought sourly, tipping her chin up a bit as the human stepped aside begrudgingly, letting her sweep inside with long strides.

  
“Hnnf, well, good day to you, Magister Armadi.”

  
The Oak doors closed, and she stood alone before a broad, silverbell desk decorated with polished brass instruments of his trade and studies. She did not look at them, unwilling to find the memories that were tied to a few of the older pieces, ones they had once used together as children during joint studies or games.

  
“I received your summons, Magister,” she said in a quietly demurred voice, dipping down into a graceful curtsy.

  
To which he responded with a casual wave of a hand, smiling lopsidedly.

  
“No need for the formalities, Zafir, we’re unattended.” His gaze fell to the chair as he started to stand.

  
“I am a Lady by birth,” she said crisply, sweeping her skirts neatly aside to take a seat in the chair across from him before he could move to pull it out for her. It was slightly shorter than his own.

  
Fernand Armadi leaned back in his chair, resplendent in elegantly embroidered waistcoat and the latest fashion of high waisted trousers, though he had tastefully avoided the current fad of hats. Waves of lush brown hair framed his masculine face, giving him a youthful, almost roguish look.

  
Unable to keep his gaze, she let hers slide away to stare at a point just above his head, pleased the shadow of her mask helped guize her cowardice.

  
He wore his own skewed, as was typical in his office, leaving almost the entirety of his charming visage lain bare.

  
“Of course, but they don’t know that, and the Obi’ino have chosen the path of the shadows. I am doing my part to keep your true heritage safe,” he said, frowning slightly. Before she could reply, he swiftly moved on. “I received a concerned report from the university principal today. Your tutors have reported you falling behind in class. Is everything alright?”

  
The gentle tone twisted a knife in her chest, and Zafir sucked in a breath.

  
“Zafir?” he prompted, standing up, and coming around the desk. He sat on the edge of it, looking down at her with gentle green eyes.

  
_‘Always looking down.’_

  
“No, everything is not alright,” she said, clinging to a modicum of poise and dignity as she stood up, uncomfortable with their positions. She wore heels, today, and the added height brought her just even with his lips.

  
_‘Lips that smile. Even as he sharpens the dagger behind my back.’_

  
Now, of course, they weren’t smiling. He reached for her, and she slapped his hand back like a snake, heart thundering in her chest, breaths suddenly uneven as her mind recoiled in revulsion.

  
“Zafir?” he repeated, shock, then anger, flashing across his face before settling into a wounded expression. “What on Aegis is wrong with you? Have- You haven’t been drinking, have you?”

  
“No!” she snapped, trembling, emotions bubbling up. “I’ve been opening my eyes to everything happening around me, and I don’t like what I see behind the bejeweled facade!”

  
A queer expression flickered across his eyes, too fast for her to catch its true meaning, and the concerned warmth returned.

  
_‘Lies. All of it. Every smile. Every fond compliment. Every promise, broken before they were even made.’_

  
“Zafir--” He reached for her again, warm hands settling on her arms, as if to stop her shaking.

  
She trembled harder, torn between revulsion at his touch, and the warm flutter of softer, deeper feelings it invoked.

  
When he tugged her forward into a sheltering hug, she froze.

  
“Shh, it’s alright. There’s no one here but you and I. Has someone said something to you, Little Willow? Who has hurt you? Tell me what’s wrong.”

  
The wretched sob that tore itself from her throat startled both of them, but not more than the fist that slammed into his gut like a coiled snake.

  
He broke away with a pained gasp, eyes wide in shock, before a cold rage washed away the springtime warmth from his eyes.

  
“You did!” She shrieked, taking a step back, cradling her fist against her chest as if it were broken. “Everything you said was a lie,” she seethed, tears dripping from the bottom of her mask, uncomfortable wetness smearing itself across her face behind it. “When were you going to tell me that my father never left any funds for me? When were you going to tell me that the schooling was all arranged by you? When were you going to tell me my father was even still alive?” she demanded, trembling. There were more accusations, more nuances of the changes and false promises she had come to notice, but these were the most pressing; the ones that had driven home.

  
“Zafir, lower your voice this instant and stop speaking nonsense; this isn’t like you at all. You’re going to make the guards concerned.”

  
As if to emphasis the point, a sharp knock sounded on the door.

  
With a warning glance to her, Fernand Armadi straightened, still pressing a palm gingerly to his stomach, and walked stiffly over to the door. Composing himself, he opened it and exchanged brief words.

  
Zafir recognized the voice of the gruff dwarf Hoplite who often stood sentry at the end of the hall.

  
When the door clicked closed, she blanched. The turning of the lock made panic rise up in her throat, and she took a step back, putting the chair she’d been sitting in between herself and he.

  
He turned to face her, frowning severely.

  
“Zaf--”

  
“Don’t call me that,” she snapped, bristling. “Songleaf. I am Songleaf, to you.”

  
“You’re Zafir,” he replied smoothly. “And we’ve every right to address one another by first name.” Confusion in his eyes, then, as he gazed at her with concern she was certain was a clever act.

  
It had to be. She had no other explanation.

  
“If you’ve quite composed yourself, then?” he asked delicately.

  
“I want answers.”

  
“Screaming at me is not a very effective way of getting them.”

  
She blanched, he stepped closer - and halted as she immediately moved back, bumping into his desk and startling herself like cornered prey.

  
With nowhere for her to escape, he simply strode forward with purpose, reaching boldly for her left hand, to scoop it up into the shelter of his own. She caught the glimpse of the long, narrow scar marring the surface of his palm in the gesture, and leaned away from him, but found herself unable to draw back the hand he held so gently.

  
“Your father yet lives,” he whispered in a grave voice, eyes serious. “I could not tell you, because we could not be certain you would be able to keep it secret. He’ll be in grave danger if his identity is known. The funds for your schooling were arranged by him, whoever told you otherwise?” he asked, idly tugging the glove off her hand to examine the scar on her palm, then threaded their fingers together.

  
Just as he always had, to comfort her when she was in poor spirits as a child.

  
The familiar gesture was at once reassuring and disturbing. Uncertainty welled up, and Zafir hesitated, still trembling.

  
“Th-The bank. I read the statements, and--”

  
“My name was put on them to prevent any curious snoops from finding your father’s. And out of convenience,” he added as an afterthought. “I knew I would be taking over the financial difficulties, it was the easiest solution. Which clerk spoke to you?”

  
“I… I don’t remember,” she stammered, though in honesty, it was more she wasn’t able to focus hard enough to recall the name, distracted as she was.

  
“Come now. I value your memory more than that,” he murmured, raising his eyes to pin her own with a steady gaze.

  
“Ah, the… The younger man, with the silver glasses.”

  
“The Mardel’s son?” he asked calmly, brushing a thumb over the side of her hand. Songleaf replied with a mute nod. A long pause followed as he turned his gaze back to their hands, bangs falling to partially obscure his eyes.

  
She swallowed thickly, then sucked in a breath as he brought her hand closer to his chest, pressing it against his heart.

  
“Zafir… You know I would never hurt you. I promised to keep you safe. I want an apology for such a wounding accusation.”

  
“I-I’m… I’m sorry,” the elf breathed in a quiet voice, the apology off her lips before she could think better of it. Something in his eyes shifted as he looked back up, and a radiant smile bloomed across his handsome features, brightening Fernand’s expression.

  
“For?” he prompted, in a light, teasing tone that sent flutters all the way down to her toes, and chills up her spine.

  
“E...Everything that just happened.”

  
“Forgiven, if you promise to place better faith and trust in me in the future, and...” A pause, then, a darkness entering his gaze. “If... violence is how you intend to express displeasure like a spoiled child, then you require discipline in learning to control yourself. I will arrange for a tutor. Do not strike me again,” he warned, grip tightening on her hand, emerald eyes sharp. “I have kept my oath. Do not break yours.”  
“I-I’m so sorry, Fernand, I--”

  
“Dismissed, Obi’ino.”

  
The title and name was like a slap to the face, drawing her up short. Glad he could not see her wounded expression or the trembling lower lip, she stepped back, slipping her hand from his and dipping down into a polite curtsy that was not quite as graceful as it could have been.

  
“Of… Of course, Fernand.”

  
“I will speak to you again this afternoon. White looks good on you,” he added, moving to sit back down at his desk as he watched her turn to leave. “Wear that dress again tomorrow, it compliments your eyes.”  
“Of course,” she whispered, then fled through the oak doors in a swish of silk she was not certain she herself owned.


End file.
